


On the Streets of Laredo

by Lauren (notalwaysweak)



Category: Red Dwarf
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2001-12-02
Updated: 2001-12-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:20:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalwaysweak/pseuds/Lauren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a sister fic to 'On the Edge of Humanity'. We know what Rimmer and Kryten did in AR that day... but what was Lister doing in there in the first place? Or who? Catch the Stephen King references -- again, 'Desperation', and this time 'The Dark Tower' as well (who is Lightning really?). Any inconsistencies with tavern names etc., are because Laredo is now no longer being altered by Kryten's mind to suit the Apocalypse theme, but is being altered by my mind to resemble something by Stephen King.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Streets of Laredo

**Author's Note:**

> Red Dwarf characters belong to Grant Naylor.

'They'll figure it out, man,' the Cat says, holding the AR helmet in his slim-fingered hands. 'I can't believe they haven't figured it out already.'

Lister, already wearing his helmet, takes the Cat's from him and places it firmly on his head. 'Shut up and log in,' he says, trying not to look at those slim fingers and think about where they've been.

The Cat sees him looking and wiggles one finger in a 'come-along' gesture. 'I know what you're thinking,' he sing-songs softly.

'Then put the visor down, and let's do more than think about it!'

* * *

The duo strut down the almost abandoned main street of Laredo, Brett Riverboat and the Riviera Kid in fine form. They'd be even more threatening if they weren't holding hands. Dark fingers are tightly entwined around each other, letting go only to open the batwing doors of the Lady Day Saloon.

'You know., we'd be killed for that if anyone was still around here,' the Cat says.

Lister favours him with an adoring look. 'Shut up, Kid. You know that all the real nasty characters that Kryten dreamt up are gone. We're left with the standard computer game ones, like Lola,' -- he nods to the bar, where the plump barmaid is watching them with an interested look on her face -- 'and the gang that're going to ride on in here in about an hour's time.'

'Are we staying for that?'

'Why not?' Lister takes the glasses Lola offers him, already poured, and the bottle along with them, and ambles over to a table near the back, handing one of the glasses over to the Cat.

They sit and drink for a while, concentrating more on the small things -- the press of Lister's thigh against the Cat's, the incipient hardness in their black jeans, and the occasional daring brush of hand against hand. They must be careful inside, where Lola can see them; they must be careful not to put their affection on show.

The batwing doors open again, and Lister looks up in surprise, seeing Dan McGrew and the Sheriff saunter in and go straight to the bar. He manages to keep his mouth shut for a long minute until they sit down, then whispers to the Cat, 'Look what the cat dragged in...' The Cat looks over, does a double-take, then laughs loudly.

'Sssh, they'll hear you! Calm down!'

* * *

Not much later, Lola kicks the other two drunks out. Lister and the Cat watch this with much amusement.

* * *

It's not for another fifteen minutes that she comes over to ask them if they'd care to stay for dinner, the clock says that the outlaw posse are due to ride in any minute now.

'Thanks, Lola, but we'll be right.'

She nods, smiling. 'You go along now, then. Go 'n make yourselves useful.' In her own, virtual-reality way, Lola has come to realise that a fight is approaching when the boys decide to leave the saloon.

They step out onto the dirt main road of Laredo. The only light on anywhere, apart from the ones behind them, is the one down in the sheriff's office, and the dying light of the sunset in the west.

Hoofbeats, from outside of town.

The two of them stand calm and unafraid in the middle of the street; Brett with one hand on the hilt of his first throwing knife, the Kid with his pistols already out and twirling idly in the last of the sunlight.

The first of the horses appears, a bay mare, galloping all out under the sign that says 'YOU ARE NOW LEAVING LAREDO'. It's followed by a black and then a grey, the three of them pulling up, prancing to a halt in front of the two standing in their way.

'Well, well, well. If it ain't Brett Riverboat,' the first of the gunslingers, a tall man with a blond Mohawk, says. 'Seems to me we've met before.'

'That's right, Wildman,' Brett replies. He touches his nose reflectively. 'You broke my nose for me. I'm out to repay the favour.'

One of the 'slinger's sidekicks breaks in nervously: 'Gee, Wildman, you think we oughta cross him? He looks pretty mean.'

'Shaddap, Wyatt,' Wildman snarls. 'I'm doin' the talking.' He caresses the butt of his gun lovingly. 'What say we duel it out, Riverboat?'

'What say you get the hell outta my town before I decide your intestines look better as a doily?' Brett replies. 'Go on. Hoss y' freight.'

Wildman sneers. 'Them's fightin' words, Riverboat.'

'Then get down off your fuckin' pony and fight.'

Something flickers in Wildman's eyes, and overhead, the thunder rumbles. 'Darla ain't no fuckin' pony.'

'Are you kiddin'? I seen better horses than that at the kiddie's carnival,' Brett taunts.

Wildman draws and fires.

Or would fire, if a knife from Brett's hand hadn't stuck, quivering, clean through his palm. Wildman shrieks like a woman. Wyatt draws, looks hesitant, and drops the pistol, just because of the way the Kid is smiling at him with those freaky teeth.

'Boo,' the Kid says simply, and Wyatt turns his grey horse and whips it hard.

Now there are two: the disarmed Wildman and his unnamed companion, who Brett recognises now as a man known as Lightning.

'Lightning, is it?' The man dips his head in assent. 'Let's see if you can beat my friend here.' Wildman is too busy howling to warn Lightning of the dangers posed in taking up this challenge.

Lightning slides off his horse, which is jittery, prancing at each flash of its owner's namesake overhead, each rumble of thunder. The Riviera Kid faces him, standing about twenty yards back, arms folded. Lightning has his hands already on the butts of his twin revolvers, which look as old as the hills.

'Draw!'

Brett watches as the Kid casually unfolds his arms, inspects a fingernail, _then_ draws -- a favourite, intimidating trick of the Riviera Kid.

But this time, something is wrong. A black hole appears in the Kid's right shoulder, and he can only draw left-handed, as his right arm doesn't want to obey his commands any more. He still manages to shoot at Lightning's revolvers, but misses.

'Brett!'

Brett throws his knives, hands doing it automatically -- two at Lightning, knocking the big guns out of his hands, one at Wildman, who is trying to go for his other gun. The Kid dives for the guns and scoops them up, rubbing a thumb over the sandalwood grips, before backing off as quickly as he can. This isn't supposed to happen.

'Give up, Riverboat,' Wildman says.

'Get real.' Brett spits onto the ground. 'Kid?'

The Kid shoots over Wildman's head, taking his hat off. Wildman jumps, and his horse shies.

'Again?'

The Kid, smiling, squeezes down on the trigger again and this time manages to trim the nails on Wildman's right hand. Being shot hasn't incapacitated him that badly, Brett notes. Wildman emits a squeak and, courage failing, starts backing off. The Kid's third shot clips off the blond Mohawk, and that's when Wildman loses it. Swinging up onto his horse, he kicks it roughly and wheels, taking off in the same direction as Wyatt.

'I'd be much obliged if you'd give my guns back now, Kid,' Lightning says.

'You shot me with one of these. Maybe I don't want to give them back.'

Lightning simply holds out a hand. 'Call it a truce?'

Brett looks at him suspiciously, then grins and takes the offered hand. 'Anyone who can outshoot the Kid here, I'd rather have on my side than the other. Peace.'

'Peace. Good fighting,' Lightning offers to the Kid, who scowls but shakes hands and gives the guns back. He immediately crosses his left hand over to grip his right shoulder tightly.

'Come on, Kid. Better get you fixed up.' Brett slips an arm around the Kid's waist. They nod to Lightning, who watches them go with penetrating, storm-blue eyes, then clucks to his horse. When Brett and the Kid look back, on their way into the saloon, he's already gone.

* * *

'Ow. Ow. You're hurting.'

'Shut up.' Brett has finished bandaging the Kid's wound, and is now double-checking that the room's door -- upstairs from the bar, they can hear the honky-tonk piano playing 'Hey Jude' -- is closed and locked.

'Gimme another drink.'

Brett holds the cup to the Kid's lips, then, when the Kid is finished drinking, blots away the drops of bourbon with his own mouth. Gently, so as not to disturb the Kid's shoulder, he crawls onto the bed and starts undoing the fastenings on the Kid's black, silver-trimmed jeans.

'Are you tryin' to come on to me?'

'Shut up, Kid.' Brett has the jeans unbuttoned. 'Oh, you. No underwear?'

'Why should I?'

'Why should you indeed?' Brett agrees pleasantly, and within seconds the Kid is completely incapable of responding anyway.

* * *

'Lister. Lister! LISTER!'

'Jeez, Rimmer, that's the _last_ thing I want to hear.'

'Well, get out of there! We've got the proper suite working now anyway. And why aren't you two piloting? You're supposed to be in the cockpit!' Rimmer's face is bright red -- more so than for his usual fits of rage -- and Lister wonders what else is the cause.

'Oh, go screw yourself, hard-light,' he says.

'Shut up, Lister.'

'Shut up, Rimmer.'

'Shut up, you two!'


End file.
